Part I – The Provocation
The Duke's hall burned with a hundred candles. Silver goblets clinked, venison fat dripped onto polished platters, and nobles laughed too loudly—drowning the stench of politics in wine.
Rowan stood near the end of the table, his plain doublet stark against a sea of silks. He sipped watered wine, silent, listening. Each boast, each lie, he filed away like a blade for later use.
Then came the voice, sharp as flint.
"Tell me, boy," drawled Lord Darius Vale, son of an ancient house, his crimson cloak spilling across his chair. "When bastards dine at a Duke's table, do they forget the taste of kennel scraps?"
The hall froze. Silence rippled, then laughter followed—loud, cruel, hungry.
Rowan's gaze slid toward Darius. His smile was small, measured, harmless.
"If you're asking about scraps, my lord… you'd know better than I. After all, dogs often eat what falls from their master's hand."
This time the laughter turned, sharp and biting—not at Rowan, but at Darius.
The young lord's jaw tightened. His goblet slammed against the table.
"You dare mock me, shadow-born?"
Rowan tilted his head, calm as still water.
"I would never dare, my lord. I only repeat what every hound knows: a master who feeds poorly soon learns what it means to be bitten."
The hall shivered.
A duel had been declared—one of tongues, not steel.
Part II – The Dance of Tongues
Darius rose, wine staining his cloak. "You think yourself clever, rat?" His words spat like venom. "A bastard clothed in scraps of wit is still a bastard."
Rowan did not rise. He did not flinch. His tone was soft, almost kind, as if instructing a child.
"Strange. My father calls me a bastard, yes… but yours?"
He let the words hang—a blade without a hilt.
Murmurs stirred. Faces turned.
Darius faltered, then lunged forward with fury.
"At least I was born of a lady's womb, not dragged screaming from some—"
"Careful." Rowan's voice sliced cleanly through the hall. He leaned forward, eyes catching the candlelight like steel.
"If you say too much, the court may remember how your lady mother was already swollen when your father returned from the campaign. Months do not lie, my lord. Though perhaps—" he sipped his wine, slow, deliberate, merciless "—perhaps bastards are not as rare as we pretend."
Gasps cut through the feast like knives. Some nobles choked on laughter; others looked away, pretending deafness.
Darius's face blazed crimson. His hand twitched toward his sword.
Rowan only smiled, soft and pitying.
"Do sit, my lord. Rage makes you look… common."
Part III – The Trap Sprung
Darius could not sit. His pride would not let him. He surged forward, steel rasping free, the blade flashing in firelight.
The Duke's guards moved instantly, steel clashing, pinning Darius back before his blade could taste air.
"Hold!" thundered the Duke, though his eyes glittered with pleasure. "Will you spill blood in my hall over a child's jest?"
Darius strained against the guards, fury twisting his face. Rowan, still seated, raised his goblet in mock salute.
"No blood spilled, Father. Only words. And if words cut more deeply than steel, perhaps my lord Vale should not bring a tongue to a duel."
This time, the laughter burst—unrestrained. Not cruel laughter at Rowan, but at Darius. At the proud wolf pup who had bared his teeth, only to be muzzled before the court.
Darius sagged against the guards, humiliated.
Rowan set his goblet down with careful grace. His smile was warmth laced with venom.
"My apologies, my lord. I did not mean to cut so deep."
Every noble knew he had meant it. That was why it worked.
Part IV – The Rival's Vow
Rowan stood at the center of the hall, bathed in torchlight, the nobles' laughter crashing over him like waves.
He had turned jeers into cheers. Humiliation into triumph.
The mask had not cracked—it gleamed.
But outside, in the cold corridors where music dulled to echoes, Darius Vale stood alone.
His fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged. His teeth ached from biting back words that would have damned him further. The nobles' laughter rang louder in his skull than the violins, louder than his heartbeat.
Rowan's smile—effortless, poisonous—was burned into him.
Darius touched the hilt of his sword, his breath sharp as iron. Not tonight. Not here.
But one day.
One day, the serpent swore in silence. You will bleed. And when you do, I will be there to watch.
He turned, the firelight stretching his shadow long and jagged across the stone. His hatred had found shape—raw, enduring, eternal.
And somewhere in the hall, Rowan laughed, unaware that in humiliating Darius Vale, he had forged something far more dangerous than an enemy.
He had created a rival.